"Come in, little herald," the voice said, smooth and mocking, laced with amusement that slithered through the door like smoke.
The voice—that exact voice—was the same one from beside the veil, the one that had taunted from the shadows. Peter finally cleared his doubts. This was him, undoubtedly, the source of that chilling presence. But that tone. That demeaning, condescending tone that dripped with superiority. He gripped the knob harder, twisted it with deliberate force, and clicked it open.
The door swung inward. Giving him the view.
And there he was, lounging on the sofa like some self-crowned king, utterly at ease in the opulent room. The same yellow hair, yellow eyes gleaming with predatory light, perfectly matching his tailored jacket that screamed arrogance and wealth.
"...You have some nerve, calling me… little," Peter growled low and dangerous, his fingers gripping his knife so tight the handle creaked under the pressure.
The yellow-haired man leaned forward slowly, his demeanor showing no sign of tension whatsoever, his eyes looking down on him as if he didn't have a single ounce of value, as if Peter were merely an insect scurrying into his parlor.
"...Kinda disappointing, really. Here I thought I would get to meet the great Slayer himself. The legendary golden immortal… haaa…" he said in a bored, drawn-out tone that carried deliberate mockery. "…Kinda prepared a spectacular welcoming gift just for him, ya know—something truly exquisite."
Peter only stared deeply, his gaze burning with restrained fury, gripping his knife tighter and pouring what little divinity he had left into it, feeling the blade hum faintly in response. Yet even as anger surged, doubt flickered—Aron's command echoed in his mind: 'do not engage'. His daughter's face flashed too, innocent and trusting.
He hesitated, breath catching, knowing he should turn away, report back, stay safe. But the insult burned, the arrogance demanded an answer, and his pride—fragile after years of scraping by—pushed him forward despite the fear coiling in his gut.
"...You, a lowly servant, think you are good enough to speak like that?" Peter growled, voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage. "I know you. I have seen cunts like you before—strutting around with borrowed power.
You are no Olympian—let alone a true Olympian. You are not even a half-breed worthy of the name. You are just a pitiful servant of the half-breeds who call themselves demigods, aren't you? A lapdog fetching scraps from their table?" Peter growled louder, stepping closer despite the warning bells in his head.
The yellow-haired man's smile widened gradually as he stood up with leisurely grace, unfolding his tall frame like a predator savoring the moment. His eyes gleamed with dark delight, not anger—pure, calm enjoyment at the defiance. "oh the little one barks….say that …last word again.." he whispered, voice velvet-soft yet edged with eager cruelty.
"...A. Pitiful. Servant," Peter repeated through gritted teeth, readying his knife, blade now glowing faintly as he committed despite the terror rising in his throat.
The man's expression shifted to one of blissful satisfaction, as if Peter had just gifted him exactly what he craved. "the anger…hmm, scrumptious ...but Enough talking," he snarled softly, face inching closer to face. His fist rose lazily, ready to unleash on the so-called herald's jaw with casual inevitability. But he didn't know if his eyes were playing tricks at first—the air around Peter warped subtly, a faint ripple like heat over desert sand.
Peter's jaw began to fade, edges blurring unnaturally, dissolving into shimmering nothingness as if reality itself rejected his presence. And finally he turned invisible.
"Ohhh, we're playing this game," he said with lazy amusement as he tuned into his own divinity, letting it uncoil like smoke from a hidden flame. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the shift in the air.
There was silence for a couple of seconds—thick, expectant silence. Then the man caught something in the air—no, he caught Peter's wrist mid-strike—as he smiled with slow, predatory satisfaction.
"Haha… You think I'm some lowly demon like the ones you puddled so easily? Think again," he said mockingly, kicking the space before him. But it was no empty air—it was Peter himself, seized and hurled back against the wall with contemptuous force.
Bang!
The impact was loud and brutal, reverberating through the room, and Peter felt every bit of it deep in his core. His stomach churned violently inside itself, twisting with nausea. What he felt wasn't just the raw kick but something far worse as well. There was a burn—a coiling, invasive surge of fiery corruption that spread through his veins like molten poison, drastically weakening him with every passing heartbeat.
"...You… your divinity… it's—"
"Corrupted… don't make such a fuss about it," he said dismissively, almost gently, as he kicked away the knife in Peter's hand with casual precision.
Bang!
He kicked the wall next, his foot landing right beside Peter's head with deliberate menace, cracking the plaster. "… oh, looky here…someone's judgmental," he said in that same playful tone, eyes gleaming with dark delight. "But sorry, the weak don't have the right…" he said, surging the same corrupted divinity through his leg as he kicked him right in the face with calculated cruelty.
Peter blocked it desperately with his crossed arms, but the impact grew more painful than before—far more powerful, laced with that searing rot. He was thrown violently to the other side of the room, crashing hard. No, it wasn't that the man's kicks were overwhelmingly powerful on their own. It was him—Peter himself—fading fast.
His divinity was on its last fragile thread, flickering weakly. And now, after that desperate block, he felt it utterly—his tank was empty. Fully empty, drained dry, not even a single drop left to draw upon.
Riiinnnggg…Riiinnnggg
His phone rang—not inside his pocket, but near the yellow-haired man. He gazed up at the yellow-haired man through blurred vision. The man casually picked up the phone, gazing at the screen as it still vibrated.
"...Hm… 'sweety'? We have a family guy here. Ohh… this is gonna be sooo much fun," he said, placing the phone in his pocket as he took out a small controller with a big red button glaring on its top. "...Wait, what are you doing?" Peter asked hoarsely, trying desperately to stand up on shaking legs.
The man smiled wider, a sneer twisting his features with pure spiteful enjoyment. "Did you forget already? I had a surprise gift planned for the golden immortal himself. But alas… I'll pass the gift to you instead… enjoy every second of it," he said, sneering openly as he pressed the button with theatrical flair.
There was serene, mocking silence for a couple of agonizing seconds.
"Wait, it didn't wor—" the man started to say, but…
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
The echoes of explosions ripped through the building one after another as the whole structure quaked violently. It shook and shook without mercy as debris from the roof rained down in choking clouds of dust and plaster.
"What… what did you do?" Peter asked in horror, voice cracking.
The man just sneered broader as he stepped confidently onto the edge of the window, balancing there like it was nothing. "...Hmm, I was going to just explode the gas tank of one of the apartments at first, but… you kinda touched my nerve when you called me a servant. So… enjoy the full show," he said with vicious satisfaction, before jumping off the window into the night.
Peter slowly stood up amid the growing chaos as he started hearing the cries of people inside the building—terrified, desperate voices rising from every floor. He remembered the many children he had glimpsed in the halls, the families living here in peaceful ignorance moments ago.
"Th… that monster!" he shouted, rage and helplessness surging together.
"...Fire! Fire! There's a fire!" a voice echoed frantically from below, raw with panic.
"Somebody, somebody call the ambulance…" another voice cried out, breaking with fear.
Panic and chaos spread around like wildfire itself. He tried to use his divinity to lighten his body from the searing pain and exhaustion. But no. He was empty—completely spent.
Peter breathed hard and raggedly. He was weak and injured; his hand, which he had used to block those corrupted strikes, was bruised and battered already, throbbing with every heartbeat. He walked unsteadily to the window, gazing down at the street far below. If he fell from here, he would take heavy damage, but he would survive somehow. He knew that with grim certainty.
But he could hear the people down below—their screams mixing with the roar of flames, the thick smoke gathering around and billowing upward. He gritted his teeth harder, jaw aching.
"I'm sorry...I have a daughter who is waiting for me…" he told them, no, he told himself quietly, the words a painful reminder as he climbed onto the window ledge, heart pounding. Ready to jump.
"Heelllppp!!!" The plea echoed desperately from below, cutting straight through him.
Peter paused there, his gaze looking down at the inferno rising, ready to jump and escape while he still could. He kept staring as he gritted his teeth even more, resolve warring with survival.
"....Sorry, sweetie," he said begrudgingly yet with unbreakable determination as he stepped back into the building, turning toward the smoke and flames to face what he must.
With haste, he paced into the hallway, covering his mouth and ducking low as the dark smoke grew thicker and thicker the deeper he went, choking the air with its acrid bite. The heat became harsher as he pressed on, waves of it rolling over him like angry waves. He saw the door and heard the pleas for help echoing from inside, desperate and raw. He tried to open the knob.
"Aaa…" He gripped his hand in burning pain that shot up his arm like lightning. The knob—it was too hot, searing his skin—which could only mean one thing: the inside was engulfed in rapidly spreading fire that devoured everything in its path. He stepped back a bit, lifted his foot, and kicked it hard with all the force he could muster.
Bang!
It opened with a groan of tortured metal.
Smoke flared out with a surge of fire and intense burn that blasted his face. Scoffing it away desperately, coughing against the onslaught, he entered, seeing a lady and her newborn child in her arms at the corner, surrounded by flames that danced hungrily around them. She wept as she held her baby tight, shielding the tiny form with her body. When she saw Peter…
"Mr… help, help the baby," she pleaded, voice breaking with terror.
"…It's okay, it's okay, calm down," Peter said softly, forcing steadiness into his words despite the chaos. He leaped through the debris and fire, feeling the flames lick at his clothes, reaching her in an instant amid the roaring heat.
"…Give me the baby," he said as he took the child carefully in one hand and grabbed her hand as well, pulling her to come with urgent strength. But…she paused, and Peter realized why, as he saw her foot. It was bleeding profusely, broken, bent at an angle it should not have been, twisted horribly from some fallen debris.
"…Mr., please take the baby first. You can come for me later," she said weakly, tears streaming down her soot-streaked face, but he didn't listen, using his hand to pull her onto his back.
"…Mr.!?"
"Just trust me…" he said firmly, carrying the child and the mother, avoiding the fire that snapped and roared around them. His pace and reflexes were more than a human should have been capable of, sharpened by desperation and lingering traces of power.
With careful precision and trusting his gut completely, he avoided everything—his adrenaline running high as his main focus was their safety above all else.
Reaching the ground floor at last, he saw others escaping as well in panicked waves. He moved out with them, taking them to safety amid the growing crowd outside. Finally...He breathed some fresh air, coughing harshly as he laid the mother gently on the ground and gave her the child with trembling hands.
"We...aaahha!! ...aha!!..We... We need a medic!" Peter shouted urgently, his lungs still strainimg him, as the woman teared up uncontrollably. She wanted to say something grateful, but she only coughed, her throat dry and raw from the smoke.
Peter only placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It's okay… you're okay. Everything's gonna be alright… don't worry, breathe…."
That was all she needed in that moment of terror. She was safe, and so was her child, cradled close once more.
Boom!!
Another explosion came from the third floor with terrifying force. One of the men who had escaped was still shouting frantically. "Where are the fire brigade at!? There are still people up there!!"
The hot, burning fire flared from the windows as another family of three gazed out desperately, shouting for help with voices hoarse from smoke.
Most of their bodies were burned, skin reddened and blistered. Peter looked around—the fire brigade still hadn't arrived in time despite the sirens wailing in the distance. He looked at his burned palm, shaking uncontrollably, his feet shaking with exhaustion and fear.
'You know what you gotta do, Peter,' he told himself firmly as he ran directly to the door once more without hesitation. Other people tried to stop him, grabbing at his arms, but they couldn't grab him firmly, let alone pull him to safety amid the panic.
"Wait... Don't, are you crazy!?" One of the men beckoned.
Facing the burning fire again, with haste born of necessity. The echoes of people calling him a madman from behind rang in his ears. Maybe—maybe he was.
He ran upward through the inferno, dodging the fire and all its debris that crashed around him. Reaching the third floor in seconds despite the agony. He kicked the door, but it didn't budge an inch. He kicked it again with more force, but still no avail against the jammed frame.
"Somebody, please!!! Help us!!" the man inside shouted in pure desperation. The cries of the child reached his ears, piercing straight to his heart.
He kicked again—the door broke with a splintering crash—but something heavy was behind the door, blocking it entirely with unyielding weight. '...I need divinity…' he thought, desperation and smoke filling his lungs until they burned.
But he had none left, so he took a second and breathed deeply despite the pain. There was no time to think further—not when lives were at stake and seconds counted. He traded it right away: divinity for karma in a forbidden exchange.
'...I will think about the consequence later..' he thought.
His body coiled once more with a surge of power that coursed through him like lightning. It was forbidden, yes—dangerously so. It would cost most of his karma, which he had saved up painstakingly.
Yes, a heavy price indeed.
"…Oh Lord, please let them be safe," he prayed fervently as he kicked the door so hard that the huge column behind the door shattered completely, as did the door in a burst of fragments. He saw the family near the window, huddled in terror.
"Come, come quickly!" he shouted urgently as they ran to him with utter haste, clinging to hope.
"Thank you, thank you so much," the family man said repeatedly as Peter led them down the hallway with protective urgency.
When suddenly…
"Daddy?!" A familiar scream came from behind, laced with pure fear.
Peter stopped abruptly—so did the family with him in frozen shock. He didn't want to believe that voice, couldn't bear to accept it. Peter gradually turned through the fire choking the hallway. He was back—the insane bastard who was the reason for all this madness—but he was not alone. At his side, his hand grabbing a teenage girl with cruel firmness.
"Daddy! —what's happening?" she shouted, voice trembling.
It was his daughter—his own flesh and blood.
"You…" Peter growled with rising fury as he stepped forward instinctively, his body surging with whatever divinity he could muster, but he stopped midway in horrified realization.
The yellow-haired man brought a knife to his daughter's throat—right at the sensitive spot where a small cut was made deliberately, a drop of blood dripping down her pale skin.
"Aa… aaa… no, no… stay there, little herald. I thought I would smell a couple of corpses by now, but…" he said with feigned disappointment that twisted into glee. "…Because of you… I smell none… none of it at all."
Peter wanted to zip right through him in a blaze of rage, but the roof started to crumble dangerously, a wooden beam falling on the family with deadly speed. Peter quickly came in between, taking the beam onto himself with a grunt of pain, covering the three strangers protectively.
"Daddy!" his daughter shouted again, voice breaking.
The fire—it was getting messy beyond control. The whole hallway was now engulfed in flames that roared hungrily, and the oxygen was getting thin, making every breath a struggle. He could survive this inferno somehow, but not the three people he had just saved—not his daughter—if they stayed here too long in the choking heat.
"Hahahaha…" the maniac laughed with unhinged delight. "…I was ordered some deaths—not much, but some… have to fill up the quota… so, you can save the three of them, take them safely outside. Be the hero and all that nonsense, but…"
There was a pause, a second of raging fire and crackling wood and concrete that filled the air with ominous threat.
"But your daughter will die…" he muttered slowly, his grin spreading wider than it should, eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure.
"You bastard!!" Peter shouted in a rush of overwhelming anger that shook his entire frame.
"Choose, little herald! Your daughter? Or that lovely family there… you don't have much time left…"
Peter looked at the three strangers, gazing at their confused, teary eyes filled with silent pleading. They were silent—of course they would be; smoke was everywhere, their eyes and lungs getting clogged up painfully. They were only humans, fragile and terrified.
He turned to his daughter, who was coughing violently, crying—not knowing what was happening or why this monster held her. It was all his fault. Everything. He had been told clearly: do not engage. But he did anyway. His arrogance, his pride, his nervousness to prove himself—letting himself fall into this situation that now threatened everyone he loved.
He closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, his blue eyes glowed with desperate resolve.
"Fuck it!" he muttered fiercely. He channeled his divinity when suddenly…
CLAP!
A loud roar of a clap echoed so powerfully it pierced his ears like thunder, and with that clap came the wind—a hurtling, storm-like wind that bathed the entire apartment in a sudden, overwhelming gust. It passed through every room, every hallway, pushing everyone and everything with unstoppable force.
"…What is happening…?" Peter shouted in shock. As the wind calmed down abruptly, so did the fire. No—it didn't calm down gradually. The raging fire that had devoured the whole building was snuffed out in an instant, extinguished completely.
The yellow-haired man looked around in confusion and growing alarm—everything around him only tar and charcoal remains. "What the fuck is this—" he said, but he was cut off sharply as he felt a grip behind his neck. A grip so tight and powerful beyond comprehension.
He knew instantly—if this someone even squeezed his hand tighter, his head and body would be severed without effort.
Peter looked on in awe, his eyes opening wide with relief and reverence. "Lord ARON!" he called out gratefully.
Aron smiled calmly, his hand still firmly on the yellow-haired man's neck. "...I told you not to engage… but I will leave that talk for later…" he said with quiet authority as he tightened his grip on the source of all the probl