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Thud!
Andrew's body slammed into the floor, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He winced, bracing for pain—but it never came.
Puzzled, he got to his feet and ran his hands over himself, checking for injuries.
"Stop doing such stupid things."
The voice was cold, shadowy, and came from… inside him.
Andrew froze, eyes darting around the room. "Who's there? Show yourself! I can see you!"
Keeping his voice loud for whoever—or whatever—might be watching, he began edging toward the table, where a fruit knife lay.
"Idiot." The scolding came again from within him, sharp and full of contempt. "You just inherited my power. Have you already forgotten?"
Andrew's stomach dropped. "The black stone… it's you? You're the one who fought that god? You're… a demon?"
"God? Demon?" The voice gave a dark, mocking laugh. "What a pitiful world. What pitiful ideas. I am no demon. And that man you saw? Not a god."
"My master is the Dark God, Hodr. That man was merely an apostle of the Light God, Baldr."
Andrew frowned. "Hodr? Baldr?"
Like most people, his knowledge of Norse mythology was limited to Thor, Loki, and Odin. But even without the details, he understood one thing—and his heart gave a little leap.
"So… if I have your power, does that make me a follower of a god?"
He'd always told himself he didn't care if his power came from an angel or a devil, but deep down, if he had the choice, "god" sounded better.
"Fool. Only mortals measure gods by 'good' and 'evil.'"
Andrew rolled his eyes. Even without much brainpower, he could tell from the way this being spoke that his so-called god was far from benevolent.
Not that it mattered. All Andrew had ever wanted was power. He could live with the rest.
"Enough, boy. I'm not here to chatter. My master sent me for two reasons, and now that you bear my legacy, you'll finish them for me."
The voice didn't wait for him to agree.
"You have two paths: kill, or corrupt. Kill—meaning you slaughter every living thing you see. Corrupt—meaning you draw out the darkness in their hearts and push them into complete ruin."
Andrew was silent for a long moment. "…There's no other option?"
"There is. You die. I chose three inheritors for a reason—spares. When you're dead, I'll simply pass my power to the other two. Someone will take the job."
Andrew swallowed hard. Death wasn't on his list. Not now—not when real, supernatural power was flowing through his veins.
But kill or corrupt? That was another matter.
After a few seconds, he inhaled deeply. "…I'll do it. I'll take the job."
If it was him or them, well… better them.
"Good. Then go. Kill, or corrupt. And find the other two I blessed—they still hold pieces of my power. Take it from them, and you'll grow even stronger."
"Fine."
Bang! Bang!
A loud, drunken voice cursed from outside. The door shuddered under a few heavy kicks before swinging open to reveal a middle-aged drunk. His filthy clothes stank of booze, and he looked barely better than a beggar.
The moment he saw Andrew, he sneered. "You little bastard, you—"
He stopped mid-insult.
Because Andrew's eyes had changed. They were now pools of inky black, glinting like the gaze of something inhuman.
"You… you—"
Andrew raised his hand, curling his fingers like claws. An invisible force seized the man by the throat and lifted him off the ground.
"Don't ever… hurt me again."
Snap.
The man's neck twisted unnaturally, and he went limp.
Andrew stood there for a moment, breathing steadily, feeling the raw power thrumming in his veins. His first kill—and no revulsion, no regret. Just a rush of exhilaration, a deep, intoxicating thrill that spread through every inch of him.
"This… this is power. Power that means no one will ever touch me again."
A slow grin spread across his face. "And if it means falling completely into darkness… so what?"
He shot upward in a blur, punching straight through the roof, soaring into the open sky. Arms outstretched, he drank in the feeling, the view, the sense of invincibility.
In that moment, he could have been a god.
"No… not enough. I can be stronger."
And with that, he streaked away into the distance.
Minutes later, a team stepped into the wrecked apartment.
Ivanka looked up at the gaping hole in the ceiling, a shadow flickering across her otherwise icy expression.
"Not even a full day, and he's already flying?"
Her gaze slid to the body on the floor. The broken neck told its own story.
Not just stronger—he'd already spilled blood. And once you'd crossed that line, there was no going back.
"That thing… I doubt conventional weapons will touch him now."
She pulled out her phone, her tone sharp as steel. "Father. I need better weapons. Now."
A beat of silence. Then, a single word: "Agreed."
"....."