[Mission Complete]
[You have defeated the devils]
[You have acquired 100+ karma points.]
Aron ignored the screen as he kept walking, his steps measured and deliberate. The veil dissolved altogether, having reached its expiration time with a faint shimmer that rippled through the air like heat haze vanishing. With the veil, everything disappeared: the deep cracks spiderwebbing the road, the mangled dead bodies of the devils—gone without a trace. Everything was gone, as if the violent clash had never scarred the street.
The people gradually came back, slowly crowding the block once more with their oblivious chatter and hurried strides. He walked toward where the unknown man had spoken from, drawn by the lingering echo of that mocking voice.. He crouched there, low to the ground, his nostrils tingling intensely with something unnatural and persistent.
'...This scent of divinity—Olympian divinity? No, there's something mortal mixed into it… but I don't smell sulfur…' he thought, his mind churning again with growing frustration and unease. There was so much he didn't understand in this timeline—so many threads pulling in directions that defied everything he knew. He should have been in his room without a single care, drowning in isolation and despair, but here he was, walking the road with purpose burning in his veins.
"Lord, who was that man?" Peter asked, slowly appearing beside him as his divinity lowered and settled.
"...I don't know. But there was a hint of Olympian scent, though I'm still not sure," he said, looking beyond the street with narrowed eyes. That wasn't the strangest part. The most concerning thing was the impossible alliance he had just witnessed…
'Why… why were the demons and the Olympians together…?' he questioned inwardly, a cold fury beginning to coil in his chest. It was absurdly unnatural—completely wrong on every cosmic level. They should be oil and water, eternal enemies locked in opposition, but here they were cooperating—one of them already knowing his identity and taunting him with it.
"Peter," he called sharply, standing up with tension rippling through his frame.
"Yes, my lord?"
"You used enough divinity there. How's your karma balancing out…?" he asked, his tone edged with genuine concern.
Peter closed his eyes, churning his divinity a bit, carefully checking the blessing within him and his link to the world—the link being his karma itself. As divinity was used, it had causality, decreasing one's karma in direct consequence. And karma determined everything: every power used, every person saved, every chaos caused or averted.
He smiled broadly. His karma had increased—way more than he anticipated, surging positively in a rush that warmed him. Maybe because he had stopped some high-class demons, or because he was supporting the pillar of humanity, Aron himself.
"It's good, lord. One of my best harvests yet," he said with a genuine, excited smile.
"Good. This is my first order to you as my upcoming herald…" he said, his voice carrying weight and authority.
Hearing those words, Peter's eyes sharpened instantly, his ears ready to receive any command with full attention. He was about to be given a mission—his first mission ever in his life, a true purpose under the one he now chose to follow. "Yes, lord," he said firmly, his back straight, his legs steady, his hands clasped behind his back in perfect posture.
"Listen well. With your unique abilities, you seem great as a scout. So I want you to find this mortal Olympian scum and make a report of his actions. I want every detail of what he did, what he is doing, and what he is going to do…"
"Yes, lord!" he replied with clear enthusiasm.
Aron smiled faintly, seeing the raw enthusiasm of the young lad and feeling a spark of something almost like hope. "Good, but… don't engage."
"…But, lor—"
"No. No. I sensed him beforehand. The stench of corruption is deep within this man—rotted through to the core. At any cost… do not engage," Aron ordered, his tone brooking no argument.
"Yes, lord. I will… not engage," he repeated, a bit down but understanding, knowing his lord didn't trust him well enough yet—as why would he? They had just met, after all.
And with that, Peter quickly walked away among the crowds, vanishing once again into the flow of mortals. Aron, meanwhile, looked around first, being careful before another car tried to hit him or some new misfortune struck. He glanced once more at the way Peter had gone, a quiet worry settling in.
[Peter Anderson]
[Karma: 40]
'I hope my karma doesn't follow him and drag him into worse trouble,' he wished silently. He looked like a good lad, a good father, a good person—much better than himself, who had let the whole world die in ash.
He closed his eyes, trying to numb that feeling down. He knew it wasn't time for self-pity. It was time for action, and to let men like Peter flourish. It was their world—never the gods', never the demons'. And he was going to keep it that way.
As the people were flooding back, he turned around abruptly, quickly touching his pocket.
"…Wait, somebody took my purse? No way…" he said in an irritated, frustrated way that bordered on genuine anger. He saw the human who had taken it—a fleeting glimpse in the crowd—
"wait!" He shouted.
[Human Harmony disrupted]
[Karma -1]
but… he couldn't do much about it without risking more backlash. Humans were the foundation of all karma, of this world, the very pillars that held the balance. And with his karma stats as they were—still fragile and negative—he couldn't do shit about it without making everything worse.
'shit…oh humanity, when will you learn..?.' he thought, controlling himself.
He quickly walked into the alley again, avoiding the unlucky water splashes from above and scanning for any new signs of hostility. He wanted to check something once more, his unease growing sharper. These gods were behaving suspiciously—way, way too early, moving pieces that shouldn't stir for years yet.
[Karma Distribution Indicator:
Angels: ⬇️
Demons: ⬆️
Gods: ⬆️⬆️⬆️]
As he checked the indicator, seeing the gods' karma so unnaturally high—higher than even the angels and demons on earth, surging in ways that defied all logic—this wasn't adding up. This really wasn't adding up, and the wrongness of it gnawed at him like a wound that wouldn't close.
"No, I need to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible," he told himself. He knew he couldn't do everything himself. As he looked above, past the ragged buildings, his gaze lifted to the floating sky.
He contemplated for a moment, thinking twice about whether he should do it or not, knowing their relationship was not good at the time.
'I hope you are still with me, Michael,' he thought. He closed his eyes, crossed his hands, and knelt. His lips moved—not in a simple mumble, but in words. Words of prayer, spoken with reverence.
"O Michael, Blade of Unnamed Fire,
Who stood when all others fell—
Stand with me now.
I am unworthy.
That is why I call.
Cut away my weakness.
Burn what festers within.
Guard the door I cannot hold.
Give me no comfort—
Make me lethal to the dark.
Let nothing unholy follow my steps.
When I fall, raise me to fight again.
When I can go no further,
Carry my soul into the light.
Come.
Amen."
There was silence. He opened one eye, feeling like something had gone amiss. He closed his eyes once more.
"Carry my soul into the light. Come to me, Michael. Amen." There was still only a breath of silence as Aron sighed.
"I said COME TO ME, MICHAEL!" he shouted aloud.
Suddenly, his eyes gradually brightened, light pouring out as his lips radiated holy brilliance. With that, his surroundings brightened up, and it was as if he stood on an entirely different plane.
He opened his golden eyes, blinking repeatedly, the burning sensation never easing whenever he passed into the realm in between. He looked around, taking in the utter whiteness of it all.
"Aron."
The voice rolled through the radiance—deep, soothing, yet edged with something ancient and wounded.
Aron spun, shielding his eyes against the blinding flare. "Michael?"
"Yes. What do you need?"
Straight to it, as always. Aron's mouth twisted. "Your knife. I need passage to the void."
Silence. Then the light flared hotter, as if enraged.
"And then what?" Michael asked, voice tight. "Slice through realms and bury yourself there? Let sloth claim what's left of you?"
Aron said nothing. A century's absence weighed between them—heavy, undeniable.
"I know you're angry," he said at last. "I vanished. Left everything to rot. But Ureil's fighting alone now. Demons multiply. The gods scheme. You feel it too."
Another silence, sharper this time.
"Come on, Michael. Don't let old wounds blind you to what matters."
"Greater good?" Michael's roar shattered the calm; light blazed like a newborn sun. "You dare speak to me of good? You know nothing of it!"
The glare burned, but Aron dropped his hand and met it head-on. Beyond the radiance stood Michael—golden hair, golden eyes, face older, harder than his own. Aron remembered that face from the war: smiling, fierce, shielding him and Ureil both.
Stupid, he told himself. Don't ruin this second chance.
"Michael."
"Yes?"
The words scraped his throat raw, but he forced them out.
"I'm sorry. I should have—"
Aron wanted to say something. He knew what Michael wanted to hear. He knew what he wanted from his lips. But those words—they were extremely hard to say for the past him. But not for the one he was now. Not the one who had gone through all that.
"...I… I am sorry, Michael." he said.
Michael—who had braced himself for another barrage of selfish words—turned, surprised, as his burning light softened and dimmed.
Never had he imagined that this moment would arrive.
He turned away sharply. "Just…stop. go. Lingering here isn't safe for a human." His fingers aligned. "You can have the knife.."
"Wait—"
Snap.
The realm folded, and Aron was gone.
Michael stood alone in the blinding light. His hand rose slowly, rubbing at eyes that no longer needed to weep.
A faint, reluctant smile curved his lips.
"I thought you'd stay broken forever in that room," he whispered to the empty glow. "But you've grown."
Aron was back, back to the mortal realm, back to earth. In his hands the Golden knife.
"Oh, Michael. You are a life saver." He voiced in glee.
He didn't want to use it, risking the cost so soon, but… he wanted to see it himself, with clear eyes, what the fuck was happening and how deep the rot had spread and know what were the Gods doing to the world. He poured a bit of divinity into the knife, feeling the familiar drain.
[Divinity used]
[-100 karma]
"Dammit, I just got them…" he complained bitterly, the loss stinging sharply, but the knife was already charged, humming with reluctant energy. He quickly used it, cutting the air slowly from top to bottom—a horizontal clean cut that tore reality like fabric.
"…Offfff," he said, feeling the deep strain the knife caused as he ripped the cut wider with his hands and stepped through, vanishing altogether into the unknown beyond.
.
.
.
Humanity would not have survived without the three immortals; it would not have persisted, nor thrived, without them. They were its parents, its caretakers—the ones who had guided and protected humanity from its first fragile breath to this very day.
And among those three immortals, one rose above all others. The one who reached the pinnacle was none other than Aron: guardian to humanity, yet slayer to everything else.
Peter felt nothing but joy knowing he had finally become Aron's herald—his servant, his caretaker. At last, he could be more than a scout; he could uphold the balance like the others.
His blue eyes glowed as he scanned the street. He had already spotted the individual Lord Aron had sent him to find. Scouting was easy enough—surveys and searches were his strength—but he yearned for something greater.
So he obeyed orders and tailed the man. It had been hours. When his phone rang for the eighth time, he glanced down: his daughter now, not his wife. His lips tightened. He hesitated, then let it ring out, losing sight of the yellow-haired man with the faint trace of Olympian divinity.
The phone buzzed once. Then again.A thin, trembling vibration against his pocket—too soft to be urgent, too persistent to ignore. He took it out.
He stared at it.
His daughter's name glowed on the cracked screen, beside a tiny sunflower emoji she had insisted he add "so Daddy doesn't forget to smile."
But instead of smiling, something inside him tightened, like someone was slowly winding a wire around his ribs. He swallowed.
Answer it.
His thumb hovered, refusing to obey. He wasn't afraid of monsters. Not of blades. Not even of death. But this—this little rectangle of glass—scared him. He inhaled sharply, hit Accept, and put the phone to his ear.
"Dad?"
Her voice was small, softer than before.
"…Sweetie?" The word cracked on the way out. A tiny sniffle on the other end. "Are you okay? Are you still with that dangerous-looking man?"
He closed his eyes.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, as if he could hold his breaking thoughts in place.
"No, sweetie, don't worry. I'm okay. Don't worry too much," he lied.
There was a pause. He could picture her frowning, biting her lip like her mother used to.
"You don't sound okay."
He turned his face away from the call, searching for the man, his eyes glowing ever brighter as he rushed more divinity than he should.
"I'm just… tired."
Another sniff. "Are you coming home?"
His heart lurched.
Home.
He exhaled, voice trembling despite his best effort.
"Of course I will, dear. Just need to finish one tiny job and I'll be there with you."
She didn't speak immediately, and that silence—her silence—hurt more than anything.
"Dad," she whispered finally, "are you lying to me?"
Just as he opened his mouth to answer, his eyes
There—across the road, the yellow-haired man slipped into a seven-story building. With haste he cut the call, as he drew closer, reaching the entrance, his hand hovering over the doorknob as Lord Aron's command echoed in his mind:
'Do not engage. Absolutely do not engage.'
He lingered too long, fingers clenched white. Part of him screamed to obey, to stay back. Another part hissed: *Don't be weak. You're more than a scout now. You're the herald of the Slayer—act like it.*
Slowly, he gripped the knob.
'…Just getting closer. That's not engaging,' he told himself.
Click.
He stepped inside. The hallway carried the warm sounds of children and the sweet scent of evening meals. A residential building.
'Why would scum like him live here?' Peter thought, following the trail upward, stairs creaking beneath careful steps. His divinity had been active for hours, humming under his skin.
His gut twisted—get out—but he shoved the feeling down. 'The more I learn, the worthier Lord Aron will see me.'
At the top floor, the last apartment stood silent—no echo of family, no life.
Unease crawled over him. His palms sweated around the hilt of a blade he hadn't even noticed drawing. Divinity poured into the steel, making it gleam faintly.
He stopped at the door. 'This is enough. Confirmed location. Return with the intel. You followed orders.'
Yet a darker thought whispered: 'He might be weaker than demons. The weakest link. If I take him down… will Lord Aron finally accept me fully?'
Then, from inside the apartment, a voice—calm, familiar, the same one from beyond the veil—called softly:
"Come in, little herald."